One Thousand Times Over

I started counting gifts when I started falling apart.

Heart racing, stomach empty, and I just wanted out. The medical doctors said it was anxiety. The psychiatric team said it was too severe to be anxiety. No one had answers. I wondered if God had abandoned me.

So I went searching for beauty, for goodness, for evidence of God-with-me.

>>Rollerblades and wind in my hair.

>>Daughter carrying the rat cage around the neighborhood calling out, “Rats for sale. Baby rats for sale.”

>>Dimpled toddler hands covered in dirt.

>>Good sex.

My sister had a touch-and-go, almost-not-making-it kind of childbirth. Sort of like I did a year prior.

It scared me. And I got worse.

I fought to stay here, but it began to feel impossible. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is hold up our hands and say, “I surrender.” I gave up my rights and was hospitalized. I hate this part of the story, but if ever it’s retold, I hope they tell how much I love my family. How fought like hell to stay with them. How no matter how weak I felt, by the grace of God I am an overcomer.

>>Pastors who visit and pray without judgment.

>>A roommate bravely getting sober.

>>Friends who feed your family when you can’t be there.

>>A fairytale to write and a way to be with my kids at bedtime.

The day after I was released, the Bay Area issued their Shelter-in-Place order. Everyone was talking about COVID, about toilet paper, and about flattening the curve. I figured if ever there was a time to find out if this PTSD was responding to treatment, it was here.

>>Neighborly waves.

>>Prolific spring flowers.

>>My first solid night’s sleep in months. Maybe years.

Then came the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and the eruption of buried pain and fear. I got calls my husband was holding over, protests to protect. I prayed there would be no rocks or spit or worse.

Then there was the call that the father-in-law had stage three cancer, the sister kept having strokes, and the grandma’s heart was failing.

>>Steaming stacks of sourdough pancakes.

>>Cowbells ringing through a wildflower-adorned meadow.

>>The prayers my kids wrote to their grandpa and how it made him cry.

>>A project to work on that turned into a whole book and the notes I got from people telling me how it blessed them.

Then came the wildfires, so big they created their own thunderheads and tornadoes of fire. My sister suffered the worst stroke yet and the doctors discovered seven clots, two the size of half-dollars on her brain.

>>Junie’s singing right alongside mine at bedtime.

>>Sitting with Sam on the couch reading books and doing crafts.

>>Mike’s promotion.

>>Finding the drawstring-less pajama bottoms from my hospital stay and throwing them in the trash. I don’t need them anymore.

>>My sister—a breathing walking talking miracle who stumped the neurologist—7 clots, several strokes, brain surgery, and all she’s missing is some of her memories. Only God.

Yesterday, I penned my thousandth gift.

One thousand gifts buried in the mess of 2020. Sure, most are garden-variety ordinary while the rest of this year has felt unprecedented. But have you ever seen a field of a thousand daffodils?

This gift-counting is an act of defiance that stares down the lies of the enemy that say, “it’s too hard,” “you’re too far gone,” or “there’s nothing good here.”

Friend. I am telling you, if you feel like you are drowning, start counting.

When we feel like we are falling apart, giving thanks is the grace that puts all the fragmented pieces of ourselves together into one mosaic of God’s unfailing love.

It’s been the hardest year of my life, but I flip through the pages of my journal and I have the proof: God is still here. God is still good. God is ever faithful.

One thousand times over.

Friend, I’d love to hear from you (it’s been a while!!). How has this year been for you? Do you count your gifts or keep a gratitude journal?